


that a brother should be so perfidious

by ladymedraut



Category: SHAKESPEARE William - Works, The Tempest - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:03:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6082116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymedraut/pseuds/ladymedraut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short one-shot set twelve years before the events of The Tempest, on the night Antonio ousted Prospero from Milan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that a brother should be so perfidious

“You were my brother.”

“Was I? Was I your brother, or was I just a servant who conveniently shared the family name?” Antonio di Milano grated out through clenched teeth. There was a rapier in his hand, unblooded, but his fingers were curling and uncurling around the hilt, his conscience struggling with his mind. Here was Prospero, the source of all his misery, just a short extension of his arm away. He could end this now and no one would blame him. No one would know.

But he would know. He would have to live the rest of his life with the feel of his blade sliding between his brother’s ribs, with the echoing screams of his infant daughter…

“I trusted you!” Prospero spat, clutching Miranda protectively to his chest. “I gave Milan into your keeping!”

“Yes, but only because you were too busy with your precious books to bother with it! You gave the governing of Milan over to me, but not the power, not the title—every law still had to go though you, every request for the treasury, every treaty. And you cared nothing for it!” Antonio had had enough. Everyone had looked down on him for his entire life, solely because he had the misfortune of being born second. By all rights, he should have been Duke of Milan, not Prospero. He was the one who cared for the state, not his brother. His brother cared for nothing but his books.

Prospero’s tower was burning behind him, those beloved books going up in gouts of hungry flame. The embers drifted down, alighting in Antonio’s hair as the reflection of flames glinted in his dark eyes. He was teetering on the edge of something—he recognized that—but the edge of what, he could not tell. Greatness? Villainy? Madness?

He heard the tread of Alonso’s soldiers as they neared the courtyard and knew that his time to decide what to do with his brother was short.

“Go!” Antonio dropped his rapier to his side and took a step away from the door. “Go, now, before I do something we’ll both regret!”

And then Prospero vanished into the night, Miranda clutched close to his chest and his royal blue robes trailing behind him. Antonio did not know where he went, nor did he care. Alonso’s soldiers were gathered around him, clapping him on the back, telling him that the Duke was fled and Milan was his. Yes, Milan was his, but he was Alonso’s man now and owed allegiance to Naples.

He shook the soldiers off and ordered them to put out the flames in Prospero’s study, an oddly hollow feeling in his chest as he turned his back on the little courtyard door and strode back into the palace. _His_ palace.

The lords greeted him as “Duke Antonio” and bowed as he passed, the ladies curtseyed, the servants scuttled away into the shadows. It was as though all memories of Prospero had vanished the moment he slipped through the courtyard door. And now Antonio had power, he had respect, he had everything he had ever wanted… Why did he feel so empty then?

Antonio strode back to his rooms, trying desperately to convince himself he wasn’t fleeing from what he had done as he motioned for the two Neapolitan guards to leave him and locked the door behind him. He stumbled over to the mirror on his dresser, fighting back the panic swelling in his chest.

“I did what I had to do,” Antonio told his reflection, combing the ash out of his dark hair. “For the good of Milan. I did what I had to do, and I do not regret it.”

He could not regret it. If he allowed himself so much as an ounce of regret, he was lost.

A sharp knock on the door startled him away from the mirror. “King Alonso demands your presence in the throne room.”

Antonio slicked his hair back into place, plastered a smirk on his face, and ground the last of his feelings for his brother into shards before opening his door. “Of course,” he smiled. “Allow me but a moment to change into something more befitting an audience with the king.”

And Antonio donned his brother’s robes of state, and Antonio swore allegiance to Naples, and Antonio did not regret what he had done.

**Author's Note:**

> Am I single-handedly trying to remedy the lack of non-Prospero's-Island-centric Tempest fanfic? Possibly. Did I write most of it during Cymbeline rehearsals? Possibly. Did I also discover the sad lack of Cymbeline fics these past few weeks? Possibly. Does that mean I'm going to start writing about Cymbeline as well? Possibly.


End file.
